Chapter 14: Everly

Chapter

Fourteen

EVERLY

The next morning, I wake to the sound of activity outside the tent. There's a rhythmic thudding that could be marching feet or, more likely, my pounding headache. The tent flap whips in the breeze, creating a staccato beat, while someone nearby lets out a string of curses.

I sit up and blink against the bright sliver of sunlight peeking through the flap.

"Everly," Cenric calls out. "Are you awake?"

For you?

I'm wide awake.

"I'm coming." I run my fingers through my wild, tangled curls in a futile attempt to smooth them.

I can only imagine how I must look after a night of restless sleep—hair sticking out every which way, face still puffy with sleep. Not exactly how I want to look when I see Cenric.

Quickly, I hurry to the washing stand and splash some cold water on my face, trying to wake myself up and look somewhat presentable. No use. Still, I do my best to pat my hair down and tame the frizzy strands.

The wind tugs at my surcoat as I step out of the tent a moment later. Cenric waits for me, looking like a warrior god. Not that I've ever seen a god.

I blink a few times, trying to clear my sleep-addled vision, but no—Cenric still stands there. His long, black hair is tied back in a loose knot, a few stray strands framing his face in a way that's probably a sin.

He wears a surcoat emblazoned with a serpent emblem over his mail armor, which does nothing to hide his broad shoulders and muscular arms.

Truly, does he have to make standing there look so effortlessly impressive? It's not fair to everyone else who struggles to appear decent after rolling out of bed.

The scar above his left eyebrow catches the light, and I think about tracing the path of that long-ago flying rock. Instead, I clench my fists, willing my heart to stop its frantic dance against my ribs.

"Good morning, Everly."

"Morning." Why couldn't I have fallen for someone else? My heart picked the most unattainable man. There are five other barbarian tribes in Tarrobane—five other opportunities for falling in love with someone else—and I love this man.

"Ready?" Cenric asks.

"Yes."

As we walk through the camp, every inch of me is aware of his presence. The way he moves. The slight brush of his arm against mine as we navigate between tents.

"Where are we going?" I ask, trying to distract myself.

"To see Morwen, the camp cook. You said you were looking for work, yes?"

I nod as we approach a massive, dome-shaped tent, the smell of fresh bread making my stomach growl.

"Hungry?" he teases.

I grin. "No, that was just my stomach's way of saying good morning."

As we enter the tent, I look around, taking in the large iron pots hanging over crackling fires. Wooden shelves line the walls, sagging under the weight of countless jars, pots, and baskets. To my right, a long table dominates one side of the tent. It's covered in an assortment of knives, wooden spoons, and other utensils. Flour dusts its surface like fresh snow, and several loaves of bread cool on a nearby rack.

Excitement fills my chest as I take it all in. This is a place where my skills as a cook could truly shine.

An older woman glances at us from her place near the table. Cenric introduces her as Morwen.

Her hair is as white as a cloud, but her eyes. They're clear blue and sharp. Even her hands are a paradox. They look weathered and worn, like they've seen more work than a village blacksmith, yet they move with the grace and precision of a master artist as she effortlessly kneads a lump of dough.

Her apron is a patchwork of pockets and pouches, each one filled with herbs and spices.

I wonder if she ever loses things in there. Does she ever reach for salt and pull out sage instead?

There's a glint in her eyes that makes me think she's seen it all. It's the look of someone who could either offer you a goblet of mint tea or a swift kick in the backside, depending on what you need most. Something tells me she's usually right about which one it is too.

A frown appears between her brows as she eyes me, and I resist the need to check if I still have mud on my face from yesterday.

"This is Everly," Cenric says. "She's looking for work, and she's an excellent cook."

Morwen grunts as she looks me up and down. "Can you knead bread?"

"I can knead bread so well, the dough practically begs for mercy," I say, earning a snort from Morwen.

"Fine," she says. "You can start by helping with the morning bread."

"I'll leave you to it, then," Cenric says as he turns and leaves the tent.

Part of me wants to call out after him, to confess everything, but the thought of my family and that poor woman in Hawke's cell stops me.

So, instead, I dive into the work, kneading dough with the ferocity of a warrior battling a horde of angry monsters. My arms burn, but I keep at it, determined to prove my worth. Morwen watches with a keen eye, probably waiting for me to collapse in a heap of flour and sweat .

"When you're done with that, peel these potatoes," she says, pointing to a mountain of spuds.

I attack the potatoes with a knife—one after another until my fingers are raw and my back aches.

Next on Morwen's list of culinary tortures: chopping onions. I blink back tears as I slice through what feels like the millionth onion.

By midday, I've peeled, chopped, and kneaded more food than I've ever seen in my life. My hands ache, my back screams, and I'm pretty sure I've sweated out half my body weight. Yet, as I look around at the fruits of my labor—the rows of fresh bread, the pots of savory stew—I feel a sense of pride.

When the sun rises high in the sky, the warriors break from their training and make their way to the center of the camp, where Morwen and I serve them.

I move between the men, ladling steaming soup into their bowls. The rich aroma of herbs and vegetables wafts up, making my stomach growl.

Maybe I can sneak a bowl later if Morwen isn't looking. She probably has eyes in the back of her head, though.

"Watch it," a gruff voice warns as I nearly collide with a broad chest.

I look up...and up...and up some more.

Mercy, do they grow them extra tall here?

"Sorry," I say as I scoop soup into his bowl. "I didn't see you there."

The warrior grunts, but I catch the hint of a smile.

As I move down the line of men, I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a mouse surrounded by giraffes. The gods could have given me some height. Then, I wouldn't come to Cenric's chest. I would be taller, more noticeable. Maybe then, he'd actually kiss me.

I shake my head, pushing away the foolish daydream. It's not like a few extra inches would suddenly make him notice me.

I pause when I come across a familiar face.

Luc!

Like Cenric, his cousin, he has always been kind to my family, especially Kassandra.

Mirth twinkles in Luc's eyes as he grins at me. "Well, well, look who it is. It's Evie Bee. Cenric didn't tell me you were here. Is your sister here too?"

I nearly snort at the use of my old nickname as I ladle soup into his bowl. "It's just me. Kassandra's back home."

"Did you come all the way here to see me?" Luc teases.

"Yes, I trekked across half of Tarrobane, fell in a mud puddle, and nearly got myself killed just to bask in your presence."

Luc's eyebrows shoot up. "Mud puddle? Killed? Sounds like you've had quite the adventure."

"Oh, you know me." I wave my hand dismissively. "I live for danger and adventure, and nothing says adventure like being covered in mud."

"Clearly." He smirks. "Tell me, does this new life of excitement involve serving soup?"

I brandish my spoon like a sword. "I'll have you know this is a very dangerous weapon. One wrong move and I could slightly inconvenience someone with a warm, tasty meal. "

The corners of Luc's mouth twitch, like he's fighting the urge to smile again. "Truly terrifying. I quake in my boots at the thought."

"As you should."

Luc's expression softens. "It's good to see you, Everly. How's your family?"

The question sobers me as memories of our dilapidated cottage flashes through my mind. The leaking roof, the drafty windows, the creaky floorboards. "They're...managing."

It's the truth, but it pains me to admit it out loud. We've always struggled, but lately it seems like the weight of poverty is crushing us slowly.

"And Kassandra? She's well?"

My heart swells at the mention of my sister.

"As well as can be expected," I say, trying to keep my tone light. "Still causing trouble and charming her way out of it."

"Tell her I said hello when you write to her."

"I will. Though, I might leave out the part where I threatened you with my deadly spoon. I wouldn't want her to worry about your safety."

He smiles. "Your secret's safe with me."

I move on to the next person in line, a burly warrior with a beard that could house a family of birds, possibly a possum, and a tiny raccoon. As I scoop soup into his bowl, I wonder if he's ever lost anything in that facial forest.

Maybe a dagger or a gold coin?

The next man in line has arms like thick logs. I'm convinced he could snap my ladle in two just by looking at it. I give him an extra portion, partly out of respect and partly out of fear .

Following him is a wiry fellow who looks like he could use about ten bowls of soup and maybe a cow. I resist the desire to dump the entire pot into his bowl. Morwen would probably have my head if I did.

The fourth person is average in every way, which is somehow more startling than all the extremes I've seen so far. I almost want to compliment him on his impressive ordinariness.

Then...Cenric steps up, and suddenly my spoon feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. My brain freezes, and I'm pretty sure I no longer know how to breathe.

Is that still a thing people do? Breathing?

He looks like he has just stepped out of a lake. His damp surcoat clings to him. His wet hair is slicked back, droplets of water clinging to the ends like they're afraid to let go. I don't blame them.

His skin practically glows, from what I assume was a very cold bath, considering that winter stakes her claim more and more every day.

Cenric raises an eyebrow, and I flush, realizing I'm holding my spoon suspended over his bowl. "Are you going to give me any, Everly?"

"I-I...yes, of course." The gods have mercy! Did I stutter?

My hand trembles as I ladle the soup into his bowl, sloshing a bit over the side.

An amused smile tugs at Cenric's mouth, and my heart does a little somersault.

It's not fair. How can one man's smile be so devastating?

Heat creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks. I keep my eyes fixed on the spoon, watching the steam rise from the soup, as if it holds the secrets to Tarrobane. Or at least the secret to not making a complete fool of myself in front of Cenric.

"Thank you, Everly."

I nod, still not trusting myself to speak. Who knows what might come out of my mouth? I might start reciting poetry about his eyes or confess my undying love right here in front of everyone. And wouldn't that just be the perfect end to this absolutely mortifying moment?

I chance a glance up at him through my lashes, immediately regretting it when I see his eyes glinting with humor.

He's enjoying this, the brute. He probably thinks it's hilarious to watch me bumble around like a newborn calf trying to run for the first time.

I open my mouth, ready with a witty retort that will surely restore my dignity. "Your soup."

Or not…

"My soup?" he asks with a lift of his eyebrows.

More warmth floods my cheeks as I fumble for something—anything—to redeem myself. "Yes. Do you have enough?" I gesture weakly at his bowl.

He glances down at his soup. "Plenty. Thank you."

Cenric walks away, his broad shoulders swaying as he moves. He settles onto a nearby log, and I tear my gaze away.

Right. I have a job to do.

I return to serving soup, but my eyes have a mind of their own, constantly drifting back to where Cenric sits—flanked by Praxis, Gabriel, and Luc.

Praxis, with his friendly brown eyes and that long scar on his face, leans in to say something to Cenric. Probably sharing some brotherly wisdom, like "Remember to oil your sword" or "Don't forget to scowl extra hard at dinner."

Gabriel nods along to whatever Luc is saying, his face stoic.

Cenric sits in the middle of it all, looking like he's barely tolerating them. His eyes scan the camp, and for a heart-stopping moment, they lock with mine. I quickly look away, pretending to be absolutely fascinated by the act of serving soup.

Oh yes, this spoon is the most interesting thing I've ever seen.

Look at how it scoops.

Truly revolutionary.

I peek up again, and to my horror, he's still looking at me. My face heats up faster than Morwen's ovens.

Great.

Now, I probably look like a tomato with hair.

I force myself to focus on doling out soup to the seemingly endless line of hungry warriors. But every so often, my focus drifts back to that log.

I serve the last warrior his soup, a man so tall I'm half convinced he's part giant. Maybe that's where all my height went—this guy stole it.

When the line ends and the last of the warriors have been served, I head back to Morwen's tent.

"Time to clean up," Morwen announces as she gestures to the mountain of dirty bowls and spoons.

I eye the pile warily. "Are you sure we can't toss them in the river?"

Morwen scowls at me. "Get to work. "

I join three other women, who introduce themselves as Brennah, Ava, and Feyona.

Brennah's brown eyes sparkle with mischief, and freckles sprinkle her nose. She's young—probably a summer younger than me—with a figure that makes me wonder if the gods got distracted while crafting her and accidentally gave her all the curves they were supposed to spread around. Her nose is pierced with what looks suspiciously like a bone, and I bite my tongue to keep from asking if it's from the last person who annoyed her.

Ava stands next to her, around forty, with streaks of gray peeking through her brown hair. Her light blue eyes hold a warmth that reminds me of my mother, and I find myself instantly at ease around her.

Then there's Feyona. If Brennah is a whirlwind, Feyona is the eye of the storm. She looks around eight summers older than me and is strikingly beautiful, with dark hair and bronzed skin that makes me look like I've been living under a rock. Her clothes are as dark as her hair.

We gather all the dirty dishes onto a cart, then push it toward the lake. Our feet crunch through a light dusting of snow as we walk to the water's edge. I eye the water, half-expecting to see fish frozen in place beneath the icy surface.

The frigid air stings my cheeks, and I yank my cloak tighter around myself, trying to block out the cold.

Brennah talks the entire time, seeming impervious to the cold as she regales us with a story about the time she tried ice fishing. I only half-listen, too focused on not slipping on the icy path.

"Well, this looks inviting," I say. "Nothing says clean dishes like potential frostbite."

Brennah giggles. "It's not that bad. Think of it as an invigorating experience."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Invigorating? Is that what we call freezing to death?"

Ava snorts as she rolls up her sleeves. "Less talking, more washing. These dishes won't clean themselves."

"Right." Feyona grabs a cloth and a bar of lye soap as she continues. "Let's get to it."

I exhale, then plunge my hands into the icy water. "Hades," I hiss through clenched teeth. "I think my soul just left my body."

Brennah laughs, her cheeks already rosy from the cold. "You'll get used to it…eventually."

"Eventually?" I say skeptically. "You mean when I've lost all feeling in my extremities?"

They laugh as we fall into a rhythm, scrubbing the dishes with sand and soap, then rinsing them in the frigid water. My fingers quickly turn red, then an alarming shade of purple.

"So, Everly," Brennah says, breaking the silence. "You never told us what brought you here."

I pause with a half-cleaned bowl in my hands. "Probably the overwhelming urge to stick my hands in ice-cold water."

Sunlight dances in Feyona's eyes as she rolls them at me. "Truly? What's your story?"

A sigh escapes me as I focus on a particularly stubborn bit of dried food. "It's not very exciting. I was looking for work to help my family in Astarobane. "

"And you came all the way to a Bloodstone camp for that?" Brennah asks, her eyes wide with curiosity.

"Yes," I say with a smile.

As we continue to wash, I wonder what these girls would think if they knew the real reason I am here. Would they still laugh and joke with me? Or would they condemn me?

Probably.